


Sentiment

by NightingaleSong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, mention of abortion, mention of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1312249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightingaleSong/pseuds/NightingaleSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fluffy ficlet written for the prompt 'after a particularly bitter argument, Sherlock brings John flowers to try and make it up to him' on bbcsherlockprompts Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment

John stormed up the stairs barely able to contain his anger. Throwing his jacket roughly onto the sofa he rounded on Sherlock, pacing over to the table and standing arm’s length away, limbs tense and jaw set. "What the hell was that about, huh?" he shouted, voice trembling with the effort to not actually punch the man in front of him.

"What now, John?" Sherlock retorted sharply, his face pulling into a disdainful sneer. He crossed his arms petulantly, deliberately provoking John further. He knew _what_. Of course he did.

"That couple have just lost their child, Sherlock, adult or not. What the bloody hell was the point in compounding their grief with telling them about the abortion and drug use? What is that going to do to help them come to terms with their loss? Tell me that?" John was roaring now, his face red,   hands clenched and knuckles white. They had been here many times before, Sherlock upsetting so many victim's families, but this time the circumstances had really got to him. The couple were older, in their late sixties, their only child, a woman in her thirties, found beaten and strangled in a filthy alley two days previously. They had had no idea about her life in the city, had believed she had a low-paid but steady job, enjoyed time with friends, lived with a slightly older boyfriend. It was all a pretence, established and maintained by the victim, but it had been their comfort during her life, and should have been their solace after her death.

Sherlock stared back at him, his reply steady, certain, and calm. "Facts, John. Facts are what help us understand."

"No, Sherlock! Not like that!" John pounded his fist onto the table, a poorly balanced pile of papers sliding over and spreading across its surface. Sherlock rolled his eyes; _case, John._ "There was no need. No need at all to tell them that. Why do you always have to prove just what a fucking _genius_ you are? You could have left them with their memories, not ruined even that for them. It was all they had left."

"And leave them with their, frankly naive, belief that their darling daughter was still pure as the driven snow? Come on, John. Even you with your dull and pedestrian brain must agree that knowing that she had made mistakes is far better. Better for helping them to, you know, _'get over it'_." Sherlock made quotation marks with his fingers in the air on the last words, his tone condescending.

John blinked and breathed deeply, preventing himself from smashing his fist into Sherlock's face. "Get. Over. It?" he repeated threateningly, his face now mere inches from Sherlock's. "Is that what you think your _facts_ do? Help people get over it? It may work for you, Sherlock, using your brain to understand rather than to feel, but it doesn't work for the rest of us mere mortals. They are in pieces, completely devastated, even more so now that you have destroyed every last mental image they had of their only child."

"Sentiment." Sherlock spat, wrinkling his nose in contempt.

"Humanity." John thundered back, his fingers twitching at his sides. The two men stood in a silent face-off for a long moment before John shook his head in disgust, turned on his heel and strode out of the flat, sweeping up his coat on his way out.   Sherlock remained still, his face eventually creasing in thought. Finally he sighed, and began to gather the scattered case notes.

 

********

 

It was several hours later that John found himself back on the doorstep of 221B. He had stayed out long enough to ensure there was no remaining immediate threat of him murdering his flatmate. He knew from experience, however, that the calm might only last until he crossed the threshold. The capriciousness of his flatmate annoyed him as much as it attracted him; frustrating yet exciting in equal measure. Sherlock was brilliant in so many ways and yet so utterly ridiculous in others. Cautiously, he climbed the stairs, unsure of what he would find. He had four stock images for this kind of situation - Sherlock being out, Sherlock being in a monumental sulk, Sherlock completely ignoring anything had happened, or Sherlock having destroyed the flat. John expected the worst case scenario.

What he did not expect was to be assailed by a sweet, floral fragrance as he reached the top of the stairs. He wrinkled his nose, adjusting his possible images to try to accommodate this new, unexpected, event. Sherlock sat in his chair. He didn't look up as he read the paper. The furniture was so far intact, _not worst case scenario after all then,_ John thought with a small sign of relief. _Just a sulk_. His eyes roamed to the kitchen, whereupon he froze at the sight before him. On the table was the most enormous display of summer flowers; _that would explain the smell then_. John's floral knowledge wasn't good but he recognised stocks, larkspur, peony, lilac and eucalyptus among the delicate yet heady mix. He felt his body tense and annoyance begin to bubble again.

"Sherlock," he began, keeping his voice calm and level. "Please not another bee experiment. If I get stung _again_ on my-"

"They're for you, John." Sherlock's interruption was barely audible, his head remaining bowed and hidden by the paper.

"P.. Pardon?" John stuttered, sure he must have misheard.

Sherlock frowned. He lowered the paper, shook it closed, folded it in half and dropped it onto the floor. Slowly, he raised himself from the chair and took a few paces towards John. "They're for you," he repeated quietly, "to say sorry."

John gaped at him and took in those luminous, verdigris eyes nervously studying his reaction; noticed a slight pink highlighting his cheeks. Without speaking, he turned his head once more towards the table and only then noticed the pale blue ribbon barely visible under the abundant mass of exquisite blooms. Around them, the table was clear and clean. All traces of the divisive case removed. He looked back to the man before him. Vulnerable and repentant. Human. Smiling, he reached towards Sherlock, cupped his cheeks in his hands and drew him down to very gently and briefly kiss the soft, warm cupid's bow.  

Blinking in surprise, Sherlock wondered whether he was suddenly ill. There had been a strange feeling in his chest and stomach when John's lips had met his. It was an odd feeling, but an unexpectedly pleasant one. "What was that for?" the surprise was clear in his voice as he touched his fingers to his lips, curiously.

"To say thank you." John replied, pulling the frustrating, exciting, ridiculous man towards him once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Other works still in progress but I saw this prompt and loved it although it ended up being mostly written quickly whilst waiting in the car! I'm happy to write for other prompts if anyone would like to send me one. Comments and kudos always most welcome!


End file.
